Again he saw them in his mind, those that had left the tribe long ago. So happy, he thought. If only Mufgar had had the courage to abandon the old ways, he and Zawar and Tehom could all have experienced the joy that was soon to be his.
The Safe Place was singing now, urging him forward with even greater speed. You are so close, it said in a voice filled with promise. So close to realizing your dream.
Shokad spoke the words of the spell faster, and the earth in front of him melted away like water. Partly running, partly flying, he burrowed his way toward Paradise, images of those who had come before him in his mind. Suria, Tutrechial, Adririon, Tandal, Savliaclass="underline" They were all there—some he could have sworn were slain in service to the Powers. It was curious indeed, but he was not about to argue with Paradise.
“Oh, Shokad, you are almost here.”
The Orisha began to giggle and angled his tunnel toward the surface. The earth grew thick with rock, making it harder to push forward—but it did not stop him.
“So close, Shokad. So, very very close.”
The shaman broke through to the surface. His hands were cracked and bleeding, and the air upon them was cold and damp. Where is the warm sunshine? he at first wondered.
Shokad squirmed from the hole in the ground and peered through the eerie greenish light. He found himself in a vast, underground cavern. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of rock, he could hear the rush of water.
“I am here,” he said aloud, expecting his people to come forward and welcome him. They did not—but something else moved amongst the rocks at the far end of the cave.
“Greetings,” Shokad said as he scrambled toward the noise. It was an odd sound, like something large and heavy being dragged across the rocks. “I am Shokad.”
Perhaps they are afraid, he thought as he climbed over the rocky ground, deeper into the cavern. “I mean you no harm,” he said aloud. “I, too, have come seeking Paradise.”
As he drew closer, he could just barely discern objects in the shadows—fleshy, egglike sacks that hung upon a large, muscular mass, blacker than the cave’s deepest shadows. It writhed and pulsed, a thing alive.
“What are you?” Shokad whispered. Cautiously, he stepped forward. “Where are my people?” He stood on tiptoe to peer inside some of the opaque, membranous growths—and his questions were answered.
The Orisha shaman wanted to scream, to ask the divine power that had brought him here why it had shown him this horror, but he didn’t have a chance. Something slithered with lightning speed from the shadows behind him and grasped him it its heavy, wet embrace.
Yes, Shokad wanted to scream—for neither he nor his people had found Paradise.
So this is Blithe, Aaron thought as he drove into the center of town. He expected more, but it was much like every other small town they’d driven through in the last two weeks. Quaint old shops, their windows displaying dusty souvenirs, surrounded a grassy common with a fancy white bandstand in its center. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and people strolled in and out of the shops while children played ball in the common.
“How you doing, Gabe?” Aaron asked the dog lying quietly in the backseat.
“I’m okay,” Gabriel answered, but Aaron could tell that the dog wasn’t feeling all that great.
The Orisha’s bite was bad, and it already looked infected. They needed to find a veterinarian soon.
“Hang in there, pal,” Aaron said, drawing closer to the town’s center. “See any sign of a veterinarian’s office?” he asked the angel sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
Camael remained silent, staring out the window with furious intensity, as he had the entire ride to Blithe.
“Hello?” Aaron asked. “What’s the story? You see something?”
The angel glanced at him, scowling. “It’s nothing,” he said, but Aaron knew that something was ruffling his feathers—pardon the pun.
“Well, I’m going to ask one of the locals, then,” Aaron said as he pulled over in front of a small hardware store.
An older man wearing a soiled Red Sox cap, plaid shirt, and overalls came out of the store with a paper bag and stopped to put his change inside a rubber coin purse.
Aaron reached across Camael, rolled down the passenger window, and called out, “Excuse me!”
The man, his face deeply tanned and crisscrossed with the mileage of age, slipped the change purse into the back pocket of his overalls and stooped slightly to look through the window. His eyes quickly passed suspiciously over everyone in the car.
“Hi,” Aaron said in his most friendly voice. He even waved. “I’m hoping you can help us.”
The man said nothing, continuing to watch him stoically. Aaron had heard that people in Maine were cautious of strangers, but this was really taking things a bit too far.
Camael meanwhile remained perfectly still, and Aaron wondered if he was willing himself invisible again. Aaron had discovered that he did this from time to time, when he didn’t feel like dealing with humans. The last time was two days ago, when they had stopped to walk the dog and were accosted by four elderly sisters who wanted to know everything about Gabriel and Labrador retrievers. Afterward, Aaron told Camael that he was being rude, and the angel responded by saying that it was only because Aaron couldn’t yet do it himself.
“My dog was bitten by something in the woods, and I need to get him to a vet.”
The old man looked at the dog, his gaze zeroing in on the bite. “What got ‘im?” he asked in raspy voice with a distinctly Maine accent.
“Raccoon,” Aaron said quickly. “Sure hope it wasn’t rabid.”
“Don’t look like any ‘coon bite I ever seen,” the old-timer growled, studying the wound through the open window. “Too wide.”
“Well, I only saw it from the back as it ran away. I guess it could have been something else.”
The old man glared at Aaron, adjusting the rim of his Red Sox cap. “It wasn’t a raccoon—so I guess it had to be somethin’ else.”
Aaron smiled tightly, feeling his patience begin to slip. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He paused and counted to ten. “So I was wondering if there’s a vet around here?”
The man seemed to think about it for a minute or two, then slowly nodded his head. “Yep, there is.” He fell silent, continuing to stare.
Feeling his blood begin to boil, Aaron wondered how long it would be before Camael summoned a sword and dispatched the annoying old man. “Do you think you could give me directions?” he asked, the strained smile on his face beginning to ache.
Again, the old man thought for a minute, nodded his head slowly, and gave them complex directions to an office just a few miles away.
“That was a rather odd fellow,” Camael said as Aaron pulled away from the curb, reviewing the convoluted directions in his mind.
“First meeting with a Mainiac?” Aaron asked, taking a left onto Portland Street, just before a large white church. “You go beyond that and you’ve gone too far,” the old man had stressed.
“I’ve encountered many madmen in my long years on this planet.”
“No, not maniac—Mainiac,” Aaron explained as he slowly drove down Portland. “People from Maine, that’s what they’re called.”
“Whatever the case, he certainly was odd.”
“And you didn’t even have to talk to him,” Aaron said, on the lookout for a dirt road on the right. “Did you will yourself invisible again?”